


Until the Flames Go Out

by Twisted_Slinky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Episode: s01e15 The Benders, Fire, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Phobias, Pre-Series Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 17:31:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15801291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Slinky/pseuds/Twisted_Slinky
Summary: Dean can't stay afraid of the flames, even if he'd probably be safer that way. Even if staring at the fire burns away a little part of him in the end. A story told in moments from 1992-2006.





	Until the Flames Go Out

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on LJ and FF way back in January of 2013 and written for the CWbigbang at the time.
> 
> The setting for this story is pre-series all the way until 2006, with no real spoilers after season 2. It's told in a series of dated scenes, so I hope you enjoy this retro work of mine. ;)

**2006**

* * *

Fires came and went, and with each appearance, something would flutter in his chest, his mouth would dry, nausea sweeping over him in tune with a quiet excitement he hoped didn't show on his face. It had been a while now since flames had thrown him off his game. He had met them firsthand in battle; he had felt their heat on his palms, on his face, stinging his eyes. He could smell smoke these days without it taking him two decades back in time, so when he knew there was heat coming from somewhere behind him, his world didn't crumble apart, even though, at the back of his mind, he knew what was coming next.

The yellow glow caught his eye, and for a moment, Dean couldn't comprehend its presence or purpose.

"You think this is funny? You brought this down on my family…" the old one said. Papa Nutjob.

Dean didn't think a damn thing about this situation was the least bit funny, but he was too caught up in the circumstances, his eyes darting from the hot poker to the man leaning in close and back again, to comment on the God-damned irony of the dumbass's statement.

Over and over, at his own insistence, Dean had proven to himself that he was in control. With every flash of a match dropped into a grave, with every choice to watch a body be consumed to embers. He hadn't frozen when he'd seen the flames in Sam's apartment, threatening his brother, because  _he_  was in control, not the fire. He  _had_  frozen when he'd seen the flaming figure in their old house—but for a different reason altogether.

So why should this, a piece of heated metal, not even an open flame, make his heart jump into his throat?

"Alright, you wanna play games? We'll play some games."

Dean grimaced, closing his eyes and himself off for a split second, as if to press the reset button, but it wasn't an easy task with Jeb-the-Cannibal's eldest holding his head back with grubby, clawing hands.

He told himself it was because he was alone, surrounded by a gun-toting family of cannibals who currently had him tied to a chair. It was the vulnerability of the situation—Winchesters were just not built for such. But Dean wondered if maybe the panic building in him wasn't something more.

What was he afraid of? He couldn't think clearly enough to be sure, but he knew it had something to do with that heat, that promise of fire in the metal rod.

Papa Nutjob stood up straight again, giving his offspring a glance. "Looks like we're gonna have a hunt tonight after all, boys—" eyes back to Dean "—and you get to pick the animal. The boy or the cop?"

Dean's brain took its sweet time trying to form words to meet the question, instead feeding him a steady repetition of  _SamFireSamFire_. Breathless, he sputtered out the first thing on his mind, the truth, because, on occasion, it worked. "Look, wait— _wait!_  Nobody's coming for me—it's just us."

"You don't choose, I will."

The promise didn't have time to soak in. Dean's eyes rolled up in his head before the sensation fully hit. The burn was intense, hot and cold and  _too much_ , and the hiss of the fabric being melded onto his skin— _"Son of bitch!"—_ was deafening, if only to him. It lasted just a second, just long enough for his face to twist in pain and fear, before the poker lifted from the spot, a wisp of smoke trailing it.

Dean couldn't feel it anymore, the spot where it had kissed his flesh, just tense, stiffened muscles screaming from his shoulder.  _The fire can't hurt me._  It was a foolish thought to have, composed of words he'd whispered to himself so many years ago, hoping their utterance would make it true, because of course the fire _could_  hurt him. Why'd he ever think otherwise?

The hands holding his head far too intimately tightened their grip, and the poker was suddenly near his face, so close to his eye that he could feel the heat searing his lashes.

"Next time," Papa Nutjob said, "I take the eye."

_The fire can't hurt me,_  but the one controlling it could.

* * *

**1992**

* * *

The boys were background noise, their voices blending in with the high-pitch of the television while John leaned over the breakfast table, drawing a line of smooth black ink under a quote in the article he was reading. A second later, he carefully tore the sheet of newspaper in half, tucking the portion he needed into his journal before going back to the book of local legends he'd borrowed from the small town's library.

He paused, eyes not really taking in the tiny type, as he considered what he was doing. It was unnatural, being inside, with both his boys not a few feet from him while he researched a case. Not that he hadn't done this before, but since Sam had gotten old enough to read, John had tried to keep anything containing more gruesome details hidden away until the kid was asleep.

John's eyes lifted. The boys were huddled on the far bed, both disappearing inside over-sized sweatshirts and paying him as little attention as possible. He could feel the tension growing between them when he saw Sam leaning in with a book, trying to say something. Dean slid back against the head of the bed, eyes trained on the tv across the room, and swatted away his brother, as if he were a wasp flying into his line of sight.

"I said knock it off, Sammy!" Dean snapped.

"Boys." John didn't speak loudly, but both of his sons must have heard, because they stiffened, giving him twin tight-lipped glances, before quieting.

Sam's gaze stayed put a bit longer, though, skimming over the pile of books and local journals on the table and stopping at the box of shotgun rounds currently being used as a paperweight. His brow wrinkled just a bit, but he didn't ask about them, going back to reading his own slender book instead.

John sighed. It was hard to believe both his boys knew what he did now. He'd hoped—hell, he'd  _prayed_ —he could keep Sam out of the loop just a bit longer, at least until he was eight, nine, but he hadn't had it in himself to be angry with either of them when he'd returned to their room a few months back, two days late for a Christmas he'd never meant to miss and in desperate search of his missing journal.

Christ, he supposed he was lucky Sammy had asked his brother what it all meant, was still young enough to believe in the possibility of the supernatural, instead of taking the book to his teacher and getting his old man hauled off to a mental ward. Could have been a damned disaster.

John hated himself for it, but he couldn't help but think that things would be a bit easier now—that was not the reaction one should have after finding out their youngest's innocence was taken from him, but he couldn't help it. With Sammy aware of his real job, his mission, even if he didn't really comprehend its extent, John could drop the charades, work by daylight, and start training Dean a bit harder without having to put up with a game of twenty questions.

"—but,  _Dean_ , you  _said_ —"

"I don't want to see your stupid book, Sammy!" Dean let out a breath that could have been a groan. "You're supposed to be taking your bath anyway—you smell like a troll."

"But it's too cold."

"The heater's on. Quit being such a princess."

"I'm not a girl!" Sam slammed his book onto the foot of the bed, crossing his arms over his chest in defiance, but his pout didn't last out. Even from where he was sitting, John could see the spark of curiosity in his narrow gaze. "…Dean? Are trolls real, too?"

Dean didn't even look up from the  _Thundercats_. "Yup, and they eat stinky kids."

"Nuh- _uh._ Dad, are trolls real?"

Maybe 'easier' wasn't the right word. John ran a hand down his face, suddenly exhausted. His boys must have noticed because their bickering cut off just as suddenly as it had appeared, and Dean's voice was calmer when it returned in the form of a gentle order.

"Bath, Sammy."

Somehow it didn't come out as the impatient bark John could taste on the tip of his tongue. How a thirteen-year-old had managed to perfect something he himself hadn't yet been able to master, John hadn't a clue.  _Probably came with being the better parent._  John winced at his own thought. He'd never meant for that to happen; he'd never meant for his eldest to fill that role for his brother, but he couldn't take it away from Dean now. Couldn't let Dean just play the part of the annoyed older brother. Couldn't afford to.  _I'm sorry, Mary._

John pushed himself up from his chair, his back popping in protest or relief, and he could feel his kid's eyes trailing him cautiously. When Sammy had disappeared along with a set of clean pajamas, John wasn't sure, but the sound of running water echoed out from the bathroom.

"I'm going to catch a few hours sleep before I head out, so keep your brother quiet," John said, stepping over to switch off the tv. "You still got the money I left last time?"

Dean nodded.

"Good. Don't spend it unless the front desk starts asking questions." John knew he didn't need to bother with the rest, with reminders, with warnings. "If I'm more than three days, call Jim. He's closest."

"Yes, sir."

John's body wanted to leave it there, drop down onto the next mattress and shut down until the A.M. rolled around, but his eyes caught sight of the picture on the front of the slender library book perched on the foot of his sons' bed, and he hesitated. The man, in his helmet and uniform, at the center of the photo, holding up a hose jetting a white stream of water into the sky, should have been the focus, but all John could see were the flames in the background, dancing from high windows. It was a children's book, one of those illustrated nonfiction books boys Sammy's age loved to flip through. But this one wasn't on spiders or castles or battleships, like the others John had noticed floating around recently.  _Firefighters_ , read the battered cover.

_Christ._  No wonder Dean was so quiet.

John swallowed the knot at the back of his throat, and he reached down, picking the book up and unceremoniously dropping it on top of the unzipped backpack littering the narrow strip between the beds.

"Sammy just wanted to show me a picture."

Dean's voice was so low, John almost thought he'd imagined it. He eased himself down onto the edge of the mattress, elbows digging into his legs as he leaned forward, holding his son's gaze. He knew the kid was waiting for him to speak, to say anything, but he lost the words before they could ever make it out of his mouth.

John had been dancing around Dean's issue with fire for years now. He'd tried, right after…He'd tried to find a way to approach it. And he'd thought, when Dean had started talking again...he'd thought that meant _this_  would fade with time, too.

John pinched his lips between two fingers, biting down the truth of the matter: he didn't have the stomach for this. He didn't have the stomach to talk to Dean about his fear of fire, because he didn't want to think about why it was his boy was afraid of it in the first place. Finally, he let out a breath.

"When you were little, you had this toy fire engine." John felt his chest tighten, but he clasped his hands, holding himself steady. "Your mother was always afraid you'd break a piece of the ladder off and swallow it, but I said you were old enough to play with it…Said every boy should have one. We bought you a plastic red helmet to wear, too." He shook his head, smiling slightly at the memories, and trying not to consider how few times he'd let himself share them with his kids. "You used to push that thing around the house all day, putting out imaginary fires."

When he looked back up, Dean was turned away, hiding whatever was under his long lashes, his face so white and pinched John could have counted his freckles by lamplight alone.

At four years old, his little Dean had wanted to either be Daddy or a firefighter when he grew up. It wasn't until a few years after the fire that John had realized Dean still answered that question the same, when teachers asked, as they always did. Even though he was afraid. Even though he'd thrown up at the first, and last, birthday party he'd been too, when he'd seen the candles lit. Even then, he still wanted to be a firefighter.

No one had asked him in a while, but John knew, whether he said it or not, Dean still wanted that, in the back of his mind. Would still answer that question the exact same way, and that it had nothing to do with putting out fires and everything to do with destroying the thing that took away his mother.

_Mary._ God, it hurt to think about her.

John nodded to himself. He'd put it off for too long, but it was time Dean grew up. It was time Dean got over this, before he started hunting.

"When…" John didn't have to finish the statement. His son was already staring up at him, knowingly. "I had nightmares, about fire, for a while."

Those green eyes widened in shock, but John went on, before Dean could ask questions, before John was forced to admit those nightmares still came. That he'd only gotten better at hiding them over the years.

"But, son, fire is just a tool. Fire didn't kill your mother. A monster did. You understand that, right?"

Dean slowly sat up straight, giving one curt nod. "I understand, Dad."

John could see the doubt there, in those eyes. Words wouldn't be enough; some fears were buried too deep. He opened his mouth, and closed it again, letting it go. "Make sure your brother gets to school on time. I'll be gone before you wake up."

"Yes, sir."

_I'm sorry, Mary._

* * *

**1993**

* * *

Smoke met them at the front door, and, for a split second, Dean couldn't remember if he was awake or dreaming. The rush inside was too fast and too slow, and Sam's pitched voice a low hum in his ears. Somewhere along the way, he'd dropped the groceries he'd been carrying. Somewhere along the way, he'd clasped onto his brother's arms, holding him tight in front of him. Still. Safe.

_Smoke_.

There was smoke in their room. He'd seen it. Smelled it. Felt it.

Where there was smoke, there was fire, but he didn't see any flames. Couldn't see them anywhere. Couldn't find where that puff of black, that biting scent, that scratch at his throat and sting at his eyes, had come from. Couldn't find it anywhere.

In the walls. It could be in the walls. Could be under the floor. Could be on the ceiling…

Dean tasted bile at the back of his throat.

He'd told Dad. He'd told him Sam was too young to be left alone. He'd told him, even though he'd really wanted to go, to help with the hunt, even so, he'd offered to stay behind with Sam. But Dad said it was time he started to go with him. And now there was fire. There was fire  _here_ , where  _Sammy_  was. There was a fire, and he couldn't find it, and it was  _here_ —

"—hurting me!"

The words broke through.

Dean took in a shaky breath, realizing he'd been asking something when his brother's voice finally became clear. How much had he said aloud? Had Sam answered? Dean blinked, trying to think of something other than that faded cloud of smoke.

Sammy, overgrown hair hanging in his face and shading his eyes, was only an arm's length away and staring up at his brother, afraid. Afraid because of the fire? No. Dean didn't think so, and he felt blood rushing up to his cheeks. His fingers hurt from where they were wadded in the short sleeves of Sam's tattered T-shirt, and he loosened his grip, taking a step away.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, his voice almost at a whisper. "I didn't…I didn't mean to."

"What happened?"

Dean thought that was one of his questions, but it came from beside him, at the front door he'd left wide open when he'd ran inside, and he didn't have to look to know his father was standing there, confused and cautious but not afraid. Not afraid because he'd heard Dean's outburst and knew the threat for what it was. And wasn't. Dean felt the embarrassment flooding through his veins anew, and he stumbled back, to the center of the room, away from the kitchenette, and his brother.

The tension left Sam's body, and Dean could see the relief in his gaze, even if he didn't quite understand it—the smell of fire was still in the air. How could he relax?

"Dad." Sam licked his bottom lip, giving his big brother a nervous glance before looking away again. "I'm sorry, Dad. I—I was trying to cook some soup, and the dish rag was sitting too close. But I put it out in the sink, and—"

John cut him off. "Are you hurt?"

Sam shook his head. "No, it didn't even—"

"You could have died." Dean wasn't sure when his voice had returned to him. It spilled out, gagging him. "You could have died."  _Like Mom_.

* * *

The steady rumble of the engine was a familiar lullaby. Calming. Comforting. Just as John had known it would be. Still, John wasn't put at ease, his knuckles white against the wheel as he took to the blackened rural roads, the headlights cutting a path through the night.

It felt odd, these days, having Sam sit up front with him. It used to be that Sam would put up a fuss when his big brother would get to sit shotgun, but over the past few years, John had quit being the center of his youngest's attention. Now it was almost awkward between them, as if the two of them didn't know quite how to behave around each other.

"Dad?"

Sam kept it to a near whisper, just barely heard over the sounds of the even breathing from the back seat, where Dean had planted himself without a word of complaint to either of them, and finally fallen asleep. John had told the boys they would go for a drive, let their room air out, and he'd meant it. They'd been a hour out when John had turned off, a destination in mind.

"He's fine, Sam," John answered.

"He was screaming at me." John wasn't sure when Sam had started using that tone of voice with him, but he didn't like it. It made every word sound like an angry accusation. "He _never_  screams at me like that. He freaked out like he was...He freaked out."

"You should have been paying better attention, Sam. You're old enough to be more careful in the kitchen," John returned, anger in the comment, even though it wasn't meant for Sam.

Sam huffed, but didn't take the bait. He grew quiet a moment longer. "It was just smoke. I didn't think…I've never seen Dean so afraid."

John didn't reply, his gaze ahead, on the next turn off. A metal sign hung between two rods, its words too faded to read in the glare of the headlights, but it was easy enough to guess the second word. Sam had. John could feel it, too, the very moment his youngest realized where they were going.

"Is this the grave you and Dean were going to tonight?" Sam's eyes widened slightly, and John could feel them on the side of his face, burning a hole straight through him. That accusatory tone returned. "What are we doing here, Dad?"

John pulled off the road, a mile out from where the old cemetery met the new plots. He heard a rustle from the backseat as soon as he killed the engine, and he had to ignore the sickening twist in his stomach.

In the rearview mirror, he could Dean's open eyes looking back at him. "Sam, stay in the car."

John was sure that one day soon Sam was going to quit listening to orders like those. John almost wished he was already there, that someone would tell him he was a bastard who should stop while he was ahead, but his boys only shared a glance before Dean slid out of his seat, going straight to work.

The spring night was still and warm, and the walk to the grave-site fast. Hours ago, he'd been here, without his shovel, without his supplies, staking out the area with his son. The daylight and the elderly couple visiting one of the newer graves had left John with no option but to wait for his next opportunity. He'd always planned on sending Dean back to the car when this time came.

Things changed.

Silently, they worked, shoveling for hours as the moon moved across the sky. The spirit made no appearance, and John wasn't sure if the lack of interruption could be considered a blessing or not. A distraction from the deed might have cut through the thick air between them.

Dean already knew what was coming next.

John had seen it in his eyes. When his son had taken the shovel out of the trunk of the Impala, Dean had realized what was he was going to be asked to do. And he hadn't spoken a word since. Hadn't begged to stay in the car with Sam. Hadn't frozen when John pulled the red tank of fuel out. But he _knew_.

John helped him out of the grave when his shovel struck brick. The antique burial liner had long since collapsed around the coffin, and the wood beneath was splintered. All too quickly, John was done clearing the body, and he climbed out of the hole, sitting on the damp earth beside his son.

"You know what to do."

Dean nodded, quiet.

John let out a shallow breath, wishing he hadn't noticed the way his son's fingers were trembling when he handed him the tank and told him to pour. When he laid a circle of rock salt in the grass and dirt around his boy and sprinkled the rest over the skeletal remains in the grave. When he pressed the box of matches into his son's palm.

"It's a tool. A hunter's weapon, just like a knife. Nothing else. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

John listened to the night. Too silent. No protests.

Fear existed for a reason. Fear kept people alive. But, he couldn't afford for his son to be afraid any longer, even if he had a good reason, even if he'd be safer without the flames around him.

"I want you to stay put," John said. "Stay here until it's completely burned, until the flames go out."

Dean swallowed, eyes trained on the shadows of the grave. John guided his hand, sliding a match against the scratch surface of the box, and he set the dark on fire. John turned his back and walked away, alone.

* * *

The ash caught on his damp lashes, whitened his dark blond hair, speckled his cheeks with smudges. He found himself sitting on the dew-wet ground, knees under his chin, when the coral red of dawn peeked over the tree-line. The scent of smoke saturated his clothes, but it was no longer any stronger than the tang of bile he'd left in the grass, and the sweat dripping off his skin had long since disappeared, leaving him chilled instead of flushed.

At some point he'd stopped trembling. At some point the embers had went cold. At some point he'd picked his shovel back up and set about re-burying the grave.

His hands were on fire. They burned with every movement, with every touch, the blisters open and leaking water and blood. But the wooden handle and his missing gloves were to blame, not the flames.

The flames hadn't touched him. They hadn't reached out, pulled him inside. They hadn't been able to go anywhere.

Watching them die…Watching the fire go out had left him electric, his heart bouncing against his ribs, trying to jump out of his body. Watching it disappear had almost made him feel powerful. Almost.

Next time, he told himself, he'd do better. Next time, he'd watch more closely, and he'd feel even stronger when it was done.

When he finally pushed himself up, he walked back to the car with their supplies in tow, and his dad pressed a new black Zippo lighter into his hands. His to keep.

Dean ran his finger along the thumbwheel and watched the spark flicker.

* * *

**1995**

* * *

He should have noticed earlier.  _A good father would have noticed._  John knew he should have felt angry with himself, but, instead, he only tasted a familiar bitterness on his tongue.

It wasn't like he'd never been called to the school counselor's office before, especially for his eldest, but the last meeting, the one he actually attended so that the boys could stay put another two weeks while he finished his hunt, that visit should have ripped off the blinders.

But it hadn't. He was used to civilians pointing out "troubling" things about this boys that they didn't know jack about, so he'd ignored what the woman had been trying to say about Dean. Hell, he'd been so pissed to be called there when his kid wasn't even in trouble that he'd all but stomped out with Dean in tow.

Now, though, it came back to him. A nosy chemistry teacher had reported Dean to the counselor, "concerned" about his relationship with fire. Something about warning signs and vandalism. John had almost laughed when he heard that—if these people even knew how useful fire was in his line of work...

Wasn't that what he'd always taught his sons? Fire was a tool; fire was a weapon.

John stepped away from the pyre his son had constructed, trying to give his boy the nod of approval he deserved and failing. A part of him wished he hadn't told Sam to stay in the car while they cleaned up. Sammy  _would_  have seen it, if he'd ever let his youngest see his brother in action.

He should have noticed earlier, how Dean always insisted on being the one to light the fires, how the glimmer of light in Dean's eyes was so much different these days when the boy spotted an open flame. Fear, he was used to seeing there. Fear, he could deal with, so long as it didn't slow Dean down anymore. But this? It wasn't fear. Wasn't  _just_ fear. It was obsession.

Dean's eyes stayed on the flames crawling over the werewolf's remains. It wasn't lust there, behind that gaze, but an intense fascination, as if the flames were alive, threatening to leap the moment he looked away. He was so focused on the fire, John wondered if the boy would stray if he ordered him to leave. Or if he'd even hear him.

John had thought he'd fixed things, or, at the very least, made them better, but this…Something wasn't right here. He'd fucked his kid up somewhere along the way, and the mistake was as plain as day in those green eyes.

"Son."

Once, when this boy had been small enough for him to hold, he'd said he'd wanted to be like Daddy or a firefighter when he grew up. And he'd ended up a firestarter instead, and far too much like his daddy. God, Mary would have kicked his ass for this.

Dean tore his eyes away from the fire. His gaze dimmed. John could almost see the walls falling back into place, blocking away that part of his son once more. "Want me to stay with it?"

He knew he needed to say no. To break the habit then and there. But it had been a long year. Two adolescent boys he didn't see often enough, too many hunts and not enough. Christ, and after what had happened to Bill Harvelle on their hunt together…No, now wasn't the time. Dean was sixteen, and he needed this still, this sense of power.

So, John only nodded and tapped his fingers against the flask of whiskey in his jacket, wanting to lose himself for a few hours while everything burned away. "Until it goes out."

* * *

**1996**

* * *

No matter how often he longed for it, silence was never a good sign in John's opinion. The gray city around him was full of noise, shouts, engines, sirens, and other irritants that made him long for a more rural hunt, but past the door, he couldn't hear the familiar sound of a tv or chatter—Hell, Sam was bickering more often than he was sleeping at his age—even though he knew the boys weren't out. Dean had reported, not two hours ago, that they'd be there to see him when he returned. So, John knew, even as he turned the key, that something was wrong.

He gave out the pass phrase and pushed his way inside, muscles coiled with anticipation. He didn't like what he saw. Both his boys were sitting at the small apartment's breakfast table, staring straight at him with purposefully blank expressions on their faces and more than a little tenseness between them. And, as predicted, his usually cocky seventeen-year-old and his usually babbling pre-teen were both stock still and quiet.

_Ah, Hell._

"What happened?" he barked, tossing his bag down.

The boys shared a look, speaking in that way without words that both made him proud and annoyed him to no end. Dean shot up out of his chair. "I'm going to take a shower," he announced.

John raised a hand, freezing him in his spot. "Sit. Now."

Dean dropped back down, a frown on his face, and Sam rolled his eyes. "I told you," he muttered, but there wasn't any venom in the words. In fact, John was fairly certain that the look his youngest was shooting his eldest was something akin to pity. John was liking this less by the second.

"Report," he demanded.

Dean straightened up, out of habit. "We, uh, spotted a fire on our way home from school. We stopped and tried to…" His voice broke off, and he was suddenly staring down at the table top. "We thought it might be related to the job you were on. You mentioned…I mean, you said there were some fires the next county over."

_Shit_. John hoped it didn't show on his face, but he'd filled in the gap. His boys had stopped to help and hadn't been able to.  _Dean_  hadn't been able to. He knew the rest already, had heard the story on the news and checked it out before he'd ever headed back. And Dean was right—the fire fit the MO of the creature he was hunting. When the bitch had circled back on him, though, he wasn't sure.

Sam pushed his bangs out of his eyes, lips pursed as he took over for his brother. "The fireman said there was a person inside the building, a homeless kid. The fire started around his sleep area." John had already assumed as much, but he nodded as he took in the information. Sam obviously didn't approve of the reaction, because his gaze narrowed. "You know, if you'd told us what you were looking for, we could have helped."

An accusation. A deserved one. John had been purposely vague about the hunt, which Dean had taken as business as usual and Sam had…well, Sam wasn't happy with much of anything his father did these days. Half the time the kid was complaining that they didn't include him enough on hunts, and the other half he spent making his thoughts on their lifestyle well known.

John had had his own reasons for keeping this one quiet. He'd thought it had been related to the demon—something his kids were nowhere near ready to hear about—but after a few calls to Bobby Singer and being called an idjit more than once, he knew that wasn't the case. This thing was just another monster that needed taken down.

"I'm going to need you boys on this one." It was enough to get their attention, and John almost felt guilty because of it. It wasn't a lie. He did need them, both of them, but he could already feel the knot in his stomach as he considered how his eldest would be most useful. "This thing, it's not eating its prey. It's on a killing spree, just a like a human psycho, and it has a type it likes to go after. It likes young guys."

"And fire," Dean supplied, a grimace on his face. John could tell it was the best he could do to hide the nervous tremor that ran down his form when realization struck. "So, I guess I'm playing bait?"

Sam's eyes widened. "You can't," he breathed. When his brother refused to look his way, he shot his attention back to John. "Dad—don't let him! You know how he is around—"

"Around what?" Dean interrupted, his voice hard. "It's a hunt, Sammy. Nothing I haven't done before."

Sam huffed, but Dean elbowed him, making light of it. "Come on—even monsters can't resist your big brother. And, you and Dad'll have my back. Right?"

John nodded, but didn't have it in himself to explain why he wanted Dean there. When his son caught his eye, though, he realized he didn't need to say a word. John wasn't sure if Dean had gotten a look at the articles he'd copied about the victims or if it was pure intuition at work, but his son knew what he wasn't saying. He could tell from that familiar glimmer in his eyes, one part fear, one part obsession.

John needed his eldest because this had everything to do with fire.

* * *

She was a salamander, the legendary variety. She—because Dad told him it would probably look like a woman, not a lizard, like some of the myths said—had a type, and it had less to do with age and more to do with her kind's other preference, for those who feared her favored element: fire.

His dad hadn't said as much, but he didn't need to this time. Dean knew how monsters worked. If they couldn't feed off of flesh, they fed off of fear. A fire elemental fed off the fear of flames. Simple enough.

Which meant his dad knew he was still afraid.

Dean had thought, after all these years of lighting the fires, of watching the flames, of feeling the heat…He'd thought it had been enough to bury that part of him deep and fool the world. But Dad still knew.

He _knew_ , and Dean could barely breathe because of it.

The fall evening was chilly, even in layers, and, hands dug in his pockets and head held low, it didn't take much for him to fit in with this neighborhood. She liked runaways. She liked prey she could take without much trouble. He looked the part without having to even change clothes.

Dean slipped across the street, away from a group of half-dressed kids shooting looks which clearly stated that competition was not appreciated, and pretended to be lost long enough to get turned around in an alleyway. It was expected, the encounter, but it took still him by a surprise when he glanced over his shoulder to find a woman standing there, blocking the exit.

Light broke through the bleak gray, the last yellow glow of a dying day cutting through the chain-length fence at the end of the alley and lighting her face. Her dark, inviting eyes brightened as they swept over him, and her hungry smile softened into something chiding but sweet. She tilted her head, the graceful line of her neck catching his attention long enough for him to follow it down to the waves of brown hair lying over one bare shoulder, over her short, second-skin green dress, and down her slender legs.

He gave her an appreciative grin that worked on most girls his age. Not that she looked his age, but beauty was beauty, even if it was hiding a monster underneath.

"Please," he breathed out, "say you're looking for me, sweetheart."

Her smile stayed set, but she didn't reply to the line, taking a step closer instead. He tensed as she reached out, running her fingertips over the top of his hand.

"You're cold," she said, a mocking pout at her lips. "We should get you warmed up."

Dean was fairly certain he'd heard those words from a prostitute on his way here, but out of her mouth, they didn't sound so much like a come-on as a sincere concern. Suddenly the expression wasn't as alluring. It was almost maternal. Not something he recognized right away.

"Cold," he repeated, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. "Yeah."

It wasn't until he felt his body swaying slightly that he realized his fingertips were numb. She'd dosed him.

Dad had given him some kind of tastes-like-ass tea to help keep the salamander toxin from doing permanent damage, but he could still feel it working its way through his body, leaving him dazed by her sudden closeness. Her breath was on his neck as she leaned into him.

"I'll make sure you never feel cold again," she promised, the scent of smoke on her tongue, and slid her fingers around his wrist.

The second dose was almost painful, pinpricks working their way up his forearm, but he was following her without complaint as she led him to the closest door. It was propped open, waiting for them.

Was he supposed to go with her? Dean couldn't remember that part of the plan. He blinked, letting his head loll back so he could stare up at the sky. There should have been a signal there, right? But he saw nothing but the glimmer of dusk before she pulled him inside.

* * *

John could feel his heart leap onto his tongue the moment Dean disappeared into the building, but he didn't make a move for the rifle lying beside him. Instead, he reached out, grabbing hold of the sleeve of Sam's jacket and knowing before he'd so much as twitched that his youngest was getting ready to jump up and give away their position. Not that it would have mattered. The monster had what she'd come for, and she wasn't looking back.

"Dad!  _What the_   _Hell_?" Sam pulled away, shoes sliding on the loose gravel of the rooftop as he tried to scramble toward the fire escape. "We've gotta go after him! Come on!"

John only latched on. "No, Sam. He'll be fine."

The boy froze, angry eyes wide and such a reminder of how few years he had under his belt that John had to look away, back down over the edge of the roof, where his other son had been, just moments ago.

John growled when he felt Sam grab on to the arm holding him in place, but the boy stilled a second later, his panicked breaths loud, even over the sounds of the city. "How do you..." His high-pitched voice broke, the words lost. John could almost see the thoughts forming behind his gaze. "You wanted that to happen? What— _why?"_

"Your brother's got to take care of this on his own, Sam."

He could never make him understand, not fully.

"You're leaving him with a monster? You're leaving  _my brother_  with a _monster_?" Sam's face was flush with sudden emotion, and he grimaced. "You're doing this to punish him, aren't you? For being scared of fire? You're an asshole!"

"Sam!" John have him a quick jerk. "Look at me, Sam—your brother is going to be fine. I know you don't understand, but you've got to trust me, I'm doing this for Dean's own good. This is  _his_  hunt."

Sam shook his head. "No, this is your  _lesson_. You're trying to teach Dean a lesson, and you're going to get him killed!" He kicked out, catching John in the shin, and slipping out of his grasp.

"Shit," John bit, almost tripping over his own duffel as he scrambled up. He reached out but missed Sam. A second later, the boy was over the ladder's guardrail, climbing down. "Sam—get your ass back here!"

* * *

The flames caught him, holding his attention fully as they bounced off the sides of the metal barrel, casting their glow on the graffiti covering the crumbled plaster walls of the old office building. He would have stopped there, in the doorway, transfixed by the fire, if she hadn't tugged him inside. The smoke was thick, the room not meant to have a fireplace, but she strolled in front of him, unhindered by the cloud of gray rolling over the ceiling.

Dean coughed into his sleeve, trying to suck in a breath through the fabric and failing. Her hand slipped off of him, and she turned, head cocked again, in that surveying way, but the smile was nowhere to be found. Without warning, her fist darted out, catching him across the cheek. Dean barely felt it, still numb from the toxins, but the force was enough to send him toppling backward. He fell into a gutted sofa against the far wall, the sharp springs catching him through his jeans.

Before he could stand, she was over him, pushing him back down as she slid into the seat beside him. " _Shh_ , pet," she cooed into his ear. "Don't you want to enjoy my warmth? Don't all pretty young boys like you enjoy a bit of  _heat_?"

Her fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, ensuring his gaze remained on the flames in front of him. "That's it. Watch it dance...Isn't it beautiful? Powerful, all-consuming, each licking flicker strong enough to destroy everything in its path."

Dean could taste bile at the back of his throat as he watched a flame slide over the rim of the barrel, slithering like a snake as it peeled away the paint on the metal, moving closer to the floor at his feet. As if it were alive. His body shook with each throb of his pulse, terror leaving a fresh sheen of sweat over his skin.

She pressed against his shoulder, her lips at his ear. "It's going to eat your flesh off, you know. It's going to leave black kisses over every inch of you…"

Dean watched, eyes staying on the flame as it curved its way closer. Because if he watched, he could see it go out. He could see the flames fade. He could see—

Dean trembled as it reached the torn fabric of the couch and then shot to his feet, stumbling away from his seat. His world spun as he moved, but he managed to stay upright, at the center of the room.

The salamander raised a brow. "You shouldn't be able to walk," she noted, then chuckled. "Aren't we a strong little human…But you're afraid, just like all the others. I can taste it, rolling off of you in waves." Her eyes were bright with pleasure. "And I must say, you're particularly delicious—that terror you're feeling, it comes from somewhere deep, doesn't it? I can always tell."

The fire sparked, suddenly engulfing the sofa in bright yellow flames, but the salamander stayed in place, relaxed against their embrace.

Dean's legs were heavy, pulling him down, but he couldn't force himself to move toward the doorway. He was too transfixed by the sight in front of him, the fire burning, lighting the woman from behind, haloing her hair until it almost looked golden.

He froze, forgetting where he was. It was just an image, really, just a glimpse through an open door as he ran past. Of a woman, pressed against the ceiling. He wasn't even sure it was from his memory. It might have just as easily been his imagination at work, piecing together what his father saw.

But he didn't believe that, not for a second.

"Mom…"

The salamander's smile widened, and she reached back, her fingers barely grazing the wall. The fire swam up her arm and onto the plaster, catching light. In seconds, the walls around him were blanketed with fire.

Dean slipped down to the floor, choking on the smoke. The dizzying movement was enough to clear his head, and he felt it, tapping against his ribs, the long length of the blade tucked inside his jacket. Silver, for elementals, just like his father had told him.

"Now, that's simply scrumptious…" she said. "I'm going to stretch this out, if you don't mind. My last meal was somewhat less than satisfying. The poor boy just rolled over and died before I could really dig my—"

Dean lunged, pulling at the handle as he moved. The salamander's eyes widened with surprised when the silver blade slid into her neck. Dean's hand shook as he twisted the knife, the grinding touch of bone on metal sounding like the popping paint beneath the flames. Her dark blood spilled out over his fingers when he yanked it free again, and he fell back, onto the floor once more, eyes stinging against the heat and smoke filling the room.

He tried to breath and couldn't, his chest tightening with need.

_Like Mom. I'll die like Mom._

Arms wrapped around him, someone shorter at his side, pulling him to his knees, and a moment later, another pair of hands lifted him up off the floor, carrying him. Away from the fire.

* * *

**1999**

* * *

"Good riddance, bitch." Dean smirked, tossing the rag he'd doused in flames into the hole. It roared in reply, and he chuckled, swiping at the sweat at his temples. "Another one bites the dust."

John stood at his son's side and watched the fire consume the remains they'd dug up, blue flames flickering along the trail of fuel, hissing when they struck salt. "Son, we're not staying tonight."

The cemetery was too close to town, and the conversation was long overdue, but John still second guessed it when Dean turned, a surprised expression on his face.

"Leave it burning?" Just the slightest hint of panic laced the young man's voice, but he held it down, snorting. "We don't ever do that."

"You don't," John agreed, "but you're going to tonight. We're leaving." John handed him the duffel, making it an order. "You hear me?"

Dean slowly nodded. "It'll go out on its own."

John was certain that was meant as a question, but he didn't reply. He jutted his chin out in the direction of the car, letting his son lead the way. He watched Dean go, his walk stiff, his head forward, as if he were resisting the urge to look back. John wished he could tell him that fire would never hurt him, no matter what, but fear, as he well knew, could save lives.

Fear was there for a reason.

* * *

**2006**

* * *

The steady sound of the shower through the paper thin walls was enough to lull him to sleep, but Dean resisted the urge to let exhaustion overcome him. Instead, he stared at the long, horizontal mirror along the wall behind the television. It was tacky, and its placement, at an even height with the beds' mattresses, a bit too well thought out, but Dean was too preoccupied by his own reflection to find it amusing.

Bruises spotted his bare chest and abdomen, and he could almost name the shapes, recognizing them as boot prints and fist marks. And all the old scars were still in place, exactly where he'd left them. He slowly reached up, his hand covering his shoulder. Beneath, he could feel a circle of skin, cooler to the touch than all the rest of him. Almost numb. It was still slightly tender, the muscle beneath bruised from the force, but the flesh itself was smooth, the touch of his fingertips only leaving it tingling.

There should have been blood. There should have been a open wound. There should have been a burn.

They'd been on the road for an hour, fleeing the state before anyone noticed they'd taken a field trip to Redneck Cannibal Farm, when he'd finally dared to poke a finger through the hole in his shirt, to check on the burn.

A burn that didn't seem to exist.

Sammy hadn't seen it. Dean had decided early on not to get his brother worked up over his wounds until they were out of dodge and stopped at a motel for the night. And now…now he didn't know what the hell to do.

He didn't imagine it. He knew he didn't imagine a red hot poker being pressed against his flesh. Did he?

Maybe that blow to the head—

But no. There, at his feet, were the dirty clothes he'd tossed when he'd stepped into the shower. The burn mark went clear through all his layers.

Dean ran his hands down his face, breaking away from his reflection. A moment later, he slipped on a T-shirt, hiding the wound—or the lack of a wound—from sight, and falling down into the chair in front of Sam's computer. He was seconds from booting it up when he reached down into his duffel instead, pulling free their dad's journal.

He'd felt those tingling pinpricks on his flesh before. The last time had been when he was pulling Sam from his apartment…from Jessica's body. His hand had hit the door frame just as the fire roared down the wall, and that tingling, cold touch had crept all the way up his arm, beneath the scorched fabric at his wrist.

Then there was the first time he'd ever felt that odd sensation. It was a distance memory, but it was still there, promising to never leave him, no matter how much he'd rather forget it: the salamander's touch.

God, how old had he been then? Sixteen? Seventeen? He wasn't sure, but he knew he'd spent at least two weeks out of commission, recovering from the smoke in his lungs. Two weeks listening to Sam and Dad bitch at each other over what had happened in that old building. Two weeks of not being able to distract himself from fresh nightmares with an old, familiar theme. Fun times.

Dean flipped through the journal, checking the dates until he knew he was close—1996.

It wasn't always easy, sorting through his dad's garbled research on the pages, and, Hell, he'd be the first to admit that he hadn't read every word of it. This page, though, was one he'd always skipped, until tonight. He ran a finger over the tight, wadded writing, flipping up a torn-out illustration that had been taped down onto the page so he could see the rest.

The line at the top, a translation, had been underlined in pencil, as if his dad had read back over the quote, after he'd written it down.

_"…And the saint said unto him, 'he who slays the salamander, if baptized in its blood, will be as the creature, untouched by the flame for all of his living days'…"_

Untouched by the flame.

"Dad." Dean shook his he head, slamming the journal shut, releasing a shallow breath. "Jesus, Dad…" He wanted to pick up the phone. Call him. Say something to his voice mail, anything, but he couldn't. He couldn't ask. And he couldn't explain.

"I was never afraid the fire would burn me," he bit. "Not _me_ …"

The door to the bathroom opened, and Sam stepped out, toweling the water out of his hair. He gave his brother a crooked grin. "Thought you'd be asleep already."

Dean didn't reply, his fingers white knuckled against the journal. He finally let go, just long enough to look up with a somber smile. "Nah, Sammy. Not before you."

****

 


End file.
